


Somnambulist

by MnemonicMadness



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Implied First Time, M/M, Morning After, Oblivious Harold, Pining, i will end up singlehandedly making this a common tag, well it's the middle of the night but close enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 11:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17059247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: Harold thinks of the sunlight that will stream through these wide windows once night has passed and the storm has moved on, illuminating a reality in which it was them both who were seeking a night of comfort from one another, but it’s only Harold who longs for more.





	Somnambulist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talkingtothesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Sky!!!!! ♥♥♥♥♥ I hope you've had a wonderful day and will have many more of that variety in the coming year of your life! You are an amazing friend and writer and I and this fandom are beyond lucky to have you ♥

Rain pelts against the large windows when Harold wakes up. The summer air has been gathering humidity for days, sending purple clouds rolling across the sky all day, announcing the inevitable downpour that descends on the city tonight. The window is tilted, allowing a breeze to carry the scent of petrichor into the bedroom. The only light is that of the streetlights outside, dim and warm, the shadows shifting with the cars that drive by, tires rushing in the distance.

Carefully he turns his head, glancing at the alarm clock on the bedside table, he has been asleep for barely more than two hours. Enough so that the remaining restlessness hums in his veins, in his bones again, a detached sort of agitation from adrenaline that should have faded by now.

The thin, high thread-count sheet clings to his sweat-covered skin and he feels overheated and oversensitised, his mind caught between wakefulness and the temptation to give into the softness of the mattress beneath him; to turn further into the strong arm embracing him, to enjoy the sensation of a steady breath against the skin of his neck. He swallows thickly.

The breeze picks up, blessedly cool, and he breathes in deeply, smelling rain and laundry detergent and fresh sweat, closing his eyes for a moment that is longer than he is willing to admit. There’s a familiar ache in his heart when the arm around him tightens the moment he prepares to sit up, has him swallowing again.

Carefully, as slowly as he can, in hopes not to wake him, he slips out of John’s warm hold. The breeze turns from comfortingly cool to unpleasantly cold where John’s naked skin was pressed to his until a moment ago. His neck twinges as he fully sits up and next to him, John shifts, his hand sleepily wandering over the still-warm mattress. Seeking. The ache intensifies and though he didn’t particularly want it, he now has confirmation regarding his suspicion that the ache of regret is caused less by what has occurred to lead to his presence here than by leaving.

There is no need to turn around to look, the glimpse out of the corner of his eye is enough for him to spot the tension that hadn’t been in John’s body a moment ago and Harold can feel his gaze on his back when gets up from the bed. He looks anyway. John is completely still, save for his eyes, turned from a blue like the sea on a winter’s day to grey by the lack of light, eyes that are following Harold.

It’s only now that Harold truly feels as naked as he is; bared and vulnerable. With the feeling comes the temptation to pick up one of the pieces of clothing strews carelessly across the floor of John’s bedroom, but he doesn’t. To do so, would be to choose a certain course of action – to gather up his own would mean to leave, to slip into John’s shirt instead would inevitably extend his stay.

His heart tells him to do the latter, or better yet, to return to the bed and lose himself in John’s arms once more, but he knows he shouldn’t. It is one thing to get caught up in the adrenaline response of a too close call and act thoughtlessly, it is another to repeat such an act now that both their minds are clear. He can allow himself a mistake, a singular occurrence not to be spoken of in the light of day, but not something more. But his heart is still refusing to arrive at the same conclusion and so, he remains indecisive, standing at the metaphorical crossroads, listening to the rain and John’s barely audible breathing.

Telling himself there is nothing his partner hasn’t already seen and explored very thoroughly – just as Harold had returned the favour – two hours ago, he ignores the feeling of nakedness and takes a few, limping steps towards the window, looking at the city, at its lights, glittering reflections on the rain’s sheen. The wind picks up again, shifts direction, forcing another breeze through the crack in the window. It cools his sweat and a small shiver runs through him.

Behind him, he hears the mattress creak faintly, hears the rustle of the blanket slipping to the floor. Doesn’t hear John’s footsteps, but he doesn’t need to, their eyes catch in their reflections on the glass and soon, he can feel the warmth of another body directly behind him chase away his goosebumps.

“You alright?” John asks, warm breath caressing Harold’s ear and this time, his shiver has nothing to do with the breeze.

“Of course.” He knows his voice sounds more sure than he feels, even as all he can hear is the silence following those two words. Not _Mr Reese_ , not _John_ , just silence. Indecision. “Are you?”

The content hum John makes as he nuzzles Harold’s neck –  closely along the scars left by shrapnel and surgery, but never once touching them, just like their lips have never touched tonight – is betrayed by the tension that fills the air between them like the storm outside. The tension he can see in the pale reflection painted onto the window. Tension he can feel when John’s arms find their way around his waist once again, and a tension of his own takes hold of him as he fights not to flinch away from the contact. Or perhaps, not to lean into it.

He does flinch when thunder explodes outside, when lightning must have struck down almost right above them. He does lean into it when John tightens his hold in a response too quick to be a conscious choice, and neither of their heartbeats slow even when the soundscape returns to silence only broken by the falling rain and the soft, barely audible kisses John peppers his neck and shoulder with.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Obviously, Harold concludes, his reassurances that he is in fact alright weren’t entirely convincing, an observation he isn’t overly surprised by. “Not particularly.” he admits.

He feels John nod in acknowledgement against him and after barely another minute of tension, John’s hold relaxes and begins slip away. Harold isn’t sure if the cold suddenly rushing over him is the result of the air around him, or if it comes from within, and it’s without his conscious permission that his hands reach up and grasp John’s just a little too tightly as they pull his arms back around his middle, pull the other close enough to eliminate all space between them. And he tells himself that the brief glimpse of John’s expression he catches in the reflection before John returns his attention to Harold’s neck isn’t one of pure relief. Tells himself that his own response of intertwining their fingers where he still holds onto John’s hands is an involuntary one, rather than the beginning of a decision that cannot possibly end in anything other than heartbreak.

This time, he relaxes into the hold, accepts the soft kisses against his neck, doesn’t flinch when lightning strikes above them and thunder breaks the serenity of the night, before it dies down again and leaves behind the torrent of rain and the distant traffic. A stronger gust of wind sends a few raindrops through the gap in the window, falling onto the pale skin of Harold’s shoulder. He is glad the sound of the rain covers the hitch in his breath when John licks them away.

He doesn’t know how long they remain like this, content and in silence, with electric tension humming just beyond their reach. Time has lost all relevance, as caught up in the moment as they are and there is a strange intimacy in this, more so than in anything else they’ve done tonight, and the night itself seems to provide more secure and comforting a cover than any bedsheet ever could. For the fraction of a moment, he is almost tempted to try and imagine what it could feel like to stand here is the harsh light of morning, this content.

“After all the times I’ve lectured him about his indiscretions, Nathan would be shaking his head at me for this lapse of judgement.” he forces out the first fleeting thought he can grasp, if only to break the silence before it becomes too tempting to stay. He has to leave, he knows. Still, his fingers stubbornly remain entwined with John’s.

“I take it he wouldn’t approve?”

Harold can’t help but lean in closer, seeking comfort perhaps, or reassurance. A foothold, when he is afraid he may become lost in how empty his world sometimes seems these days. Save for the man behind him. A haven, a safe harbour, a home. One so easily lost, as he was yet again reminded only yesterday.

“Oh, on the contrary.” he allows, finding himself smiling. “I think you and him would have gotten along frighteningly well. To great detriment to my peace of mind, no doubt.” And maybe, the barely there sensation against the skin of his neck is a smile as well.

“Wish I could’ve met him.”

“Yes, so do I. Though I suppose our lives would have had to be much too different for that to occur. Or perhaps we would have needed to simply be part of a kinder world.”

This time, the silence doesn’t last as long and it’s John who breaks it, voice soft and hesitant and uncertain and pleading. “Come back to bed, Harold.”

And Harold thinks of the sunlight that will stream through these wide windows once night has passed and the storm has moved on, illuminating a reality in which it was them both who were seeking a night of comfort from one another, but it’s only Harold who longs for more. For something he has no right to take, not even to ask for, and so he needs to leave, before he stays too long to avoid leaving his heart behind in John’s unknowing care when he inevitably does have to go.

Thinks of John’s lips on the skin around his scars but never on them, John’s lips trailing his body and his face; his jaw, his eyelids, the corners of his mouth, but never touching Harold’s own.

“Thank you, but I really should leave now, let you catch some rest and hopefully get a little myself, we do have work in the morning. After all, the numbers never stop coming. But I do appreciate the offer, Mr Reese.” And just like this, the decision is made, and John doesn’t resist when Harold pulls away and breaks his hold. And if in some distant, foolishly hopeful part of his heart, it almost feels like something much more fragile, much more precious breaks with it, he deems it a figment of his imagination and resolves to ignore it.

From the corner of his eye, he sees John nod, face blank, betraying neither disappointment nor relief, then Harold turns around in silence, searching the near darkness of the bedroom for his clothes, John’s hand brushing his own whenever he hands him something Harold overlooked. In silence, he begins to redress, slowly, painfully as per usual. Underwear, socks, slacks, pushing aside the sudden urge to reach for John’s shirt instead of his own.

When he glances to the side, John is standing by the window once more, in the place they’d both been, like he’d never left, and something in the tension he carries gives Harold a whispering suspicion that he hasn’t solely turned in consideration of Harold’s privacy. The longing to sooth it away, to step up and take John’s earlier position, hold him and pepper kisses over scarred skin is so overwhelming he can almost taste it, and he renews his decision that he needs to leave. Decides that he may as well put his tie and waistcoat and jacket on at the front door, where he thinks he left his shoes.

He turns, and walks away, until his feet root themselves to the floor and he relents, decides that he can allow himself one more stolen intimacy, small as it is. “Good night, John.” he murmurs softly.

He has barely made it two more steps to the door when he hears footsteps approaching even over the noise of the rain and the cars rushing below. Hears John’s “Dammit, Harold!”, in one of those half-whispers when the speaker truly wants to yell.

And then he finds himself – carefully, always carefully – being turned around, a hand buried in his hair and another covering the scars on his neck, and hot lips are pressed to his own, inelegant and desperate, full of all the unspoken things not even the night lets one confess. The touch only lasts for a blissful second, and for another one John leans his forehead against his, a strangely agonised expression on his face that Harold can make out even through the darkness and the lack of distance. John’s shuddering exhale cools the hint of moisture left behind on Harold’s lips, but then, before he can quite comprehend, John stalks away, sinks down into his bed with his back turned, leaving him lost and in the dark until his fingers once more make his choice for him.

His clothes slip out of his grasp and to the floor, and he walks away from the door, back towards the bed almost in a trance, sits down on the edge of the mattress, watches helplessly as his hand reaches for John’s shoulder and remains there until the other faces him once more. Lightning flashes outside and reflects off the trails of wetness on John’s cheeks that Harold knows were dry only a moment ago and _oh_.

He reaches out and cups John’s face, wipes the tears away with his thumbs and when fresh ones trail after them like the raindrops on the windows, he kisses them away instead, follows the path they’ve left until finally, finally he finds the other’s lips again. There is a last moment’s hesitance, then John surges up to welcome him, tugs at the clothes Harold redressed in, holds on as though he’s too afraid to let go.

“Please stay.” he pleads into his lips, voice cracked and shaking and breathless when they finally come up for air.

And over the patter of the rain, Harold whispers “Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it? If so, please consider leaving me a comment to decorate my inbox with, comments are even better than baubles and candy canes :D


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